


Botão com âncora

by NuuskamuikkusenPilli



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, BAMF John, John is a Finn, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuuskamuikkusenPilli/pseuds/NuuskamuikkusenPilli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the end of the 1940s. A limping seaman meets a dark stranger in a seedy alleyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every night I wait for you and your ship

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ankkurinappi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146379) by [NuuskamuikkusenPilli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuuskamuikkusenPilli/pseuds/NuuskamuikkusenPilli). 



> This is the English version of my Finnish fic Ankkurinappi. Might take a while to finish, as English is not my native tongue. The title of the original fic is a song by the Finnish singer and songwriter J. Karjalainen. The title of this English version is the Portuguese translation of that song, performed by a group named Eduardo and His Brazilian Aeroplane. The subtitles are all from the song lyrics, here translated into English.

The Thames was black, but London was bright. John stepped ashore, first on his good leg, the troublesome right leg following stiffly but promptly. The harbour reeked of sewage, rotten fish, smoke and coal. A persistent September wind pushed his back as he walked down the pier. Cargo ship Schwalbe had arrived late in the evening, but the dockers were already busy working on and around it, unloading and loading. John, who, while at sea, liked to spend his free nights reading books in his cabin, had grown restless at the sight of the city lights. Peltonen, the other Finn on the ship, had knocked on his door and asked him to come along to a pub named African Queen. John was reading “Advanced English for Foreigners” on his bunk, upper body stripped down to a sleeveless vest, the suspenders of his trousers hanging down on his waist. He reclined Peltonen’s offer and claimed to be calling it an early night. But the moment he heard the metallic echo of Peltonen’s steps moving further down the crew corridor, he got up and left his book upside down on his pillow. He had the whole cabin for himself, the upper bunk was empty. Same kind of tin cans mostly held two, some even three men. John was a well-liked member of the crew, but others avoided sharing a cabin with him. Even though a lot of men had nightmares caused by the war, nobody screamed in his sleep like this Finnish chap. It was a nasty thing to wake up to, night after night, for anybody trying to sleep in the same cabin. These kinds of matters were not discussed, but usually a private cabin was arranged for John pretty quickly, whenever he signed up on a new ship. He had already been working on Schwalbe half a year, and accordingly the reason behind the arrangement was quite clear to everyone.

John went to the washbasin and leant over to look at himself in the small mirror hanging on the wall. His sandy thick hair was standing every which way and he had a three days’ beard growth. There was a sooty mark on his cheek, a sign of a four-hour shift he had just spent shoveling coal in the boiler room of the ship. John sighed and rubbed absentmindedly his left shoulder, where a thick layer of scar tissue shone pale on his suntanned skin. Numerous smaller scars were scattered over his chest, upper arms and shoulders. Adding to them, two swallows, tattooed on both sides of the chest, were peeking from under his vest. The left one was pictured with a dagger piercing through its body. “In the memory of a friend lost at sea,” John had said to the old, shirtless tattooist on Lower Manhattan, who after that had pounded his skin in respectful silence. Such was the burial of a sailor: Seaweeds for a coffin and the buzz of a tattoo machine in a shabby shop for a funeral march. Among seamen it was common to take swallow tattoos as a promise of returning home, but John was never going to return to his homeland. He did not have nor need a home, other than this cabin and dozens like it.

John closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he started to act swiftly and purposefully. He washed his face with soap, carefully shaved his beard and smoothed his hair with the help of comb and water. He lifted his suspenders on his shoulders and pulled a thick, dark blue pullover over his head, a robust leftover from his time in the Finnish navy. He shoved his wallet in the pocket of his heavy-duty corduroy trousers and left the cabin at a brisk pace. It was quiet in the corridors; almost everyone had left to make the most of their short shore leave. Once he was on the pier, John paused for a moment and lit a cigarette. The war had taught him, like thousands, probably millions of other men, the blissfully calming routine of smoking. John dragged his lungs full a couple of times, feeling the tremor in his left hand lessen. He started walking without haste towards his destination. John was a man somewhat under the average height, but also stronger than most. Although he limped, his compact person seemed to radiate a silent threat that made the drunken troublemakers of the dockside leave him alone. He walked half an hour looking for the right street, and after finding it still a considerable amount of time in order to find the small backstreet he had been told about by the English sailor he had met in Hamburg. 

Lavender Street was a narrow, dark cul-de-sac, with a public lavatory placed in cellar at its rear end. There were no streetlights, but John saw the red glow of several cigarettes in the dark, and the sparse light shed by the lamp at the lavatory stairs made it possible for him to see some of the men leaning against the wall beside the stairs. Any normal citizen, concerned with his safety, health and reputation, would have dreaded coming to such a street, but John approached it calmly, arms relaxed on his sides and head held high. He stopped shortly to take the last drags out of his second cigarette and to throw the stub on the ground. As he was coming from the bigger street, which had proper lights, the men on the alley could see him entering. He heard a diversity of voices commenting on his entrance, both in English and in Polari – the secret language of such alleyways. “Hello, sailor,” they said, and: “Short man, but nice arse!” “Limp this way, good-looking!” “Come here, mama has got something sweet for you!” John shook his head in amusement. He was just about to step deeper into the alley when he heard a velvety baritone speaking right next to him quietly in English: “John. Or should I call you Johannes?”


	2. It was dark when we met

The words went through John like an electric current. He stopped and slowly turned. It had been years since he had heard his Christian name spoken. Even other Finns on the ships only knew him as John. The stranger with the velvety voice was leaning against the damp brick wall on John’s left side, near to the corner of the street. His face was in a deep shadow, but in the light coming from the bigger street John could see that he was a tall man with dark, curly hair, dressed in a black suit, a woollen greatcoat and a red scarf. He did not look like the type usually frequenting such alleys. “Have we met?” John asked with a calm voice that had an undertone of threat. “I have been waiting for you so long,” the stranger said. The low rumble of his voice and the tension that seemed to surround him went directly to John’s groin. He shifted his legs to give his stiffening cock more room.

The stranger took John’s hand to pull him closer. His long fingers felt luxuriously cool and smooth against John’s warm and calloused hand. They also sent another electric impulse to John’s body. John felt his cock growing fully hard and straining against the thick material of his trousers. He had to use all of his will power not to pull the stranger’s body against his. Instead, the stranger surprised him by spinning him around, so that he ended up standing with his back to the wall, the stranger taking his former place, still facing him. He was notably taller than John, and although he was of a slighter build, his wide greatcoat blocked John’s view to the exit and to pretty much everything. Usually, behaviour like that would have been enough for John to put an end to the whole thing, but this was not a usual situation. He could not and did not want to go.

“Johannes Valtonen, of late known by the name John, born 1917 in a coastal community Pyhäranta as a son of a vicar. Medical student at the University of Helsinki from year 1936, the same year also announced engagement to a certain Maria Mikkonen of his home parish. At the outbreak of the war in 1939 called to naval service on the coastal defence ship Ilmarinen to serve as a medical officer. Returned to the university during the Interim Peace to receive his medical degree and then back to the Ilmarinen upon the reopening of the hostilities in 1941. Served there until the ship was sunk in September 1941 by a Soviet sea mine. Wounded in the left shoulder on that occasion, also showing signs of psychological trauma. After partial recovery transferred to service as military staff and promoted to captain lieutenant before the end of the war. After the war, has left his home country and worked on several cargo ships as a member of the crew, on North and South Atlantic as well as European seas.” The dark stranger had rattled his litany in a speed that would have been impossible to follow, had he not been talking about the events of John’s own life.

John was fearless in the face of almost any danger – some would say he liked danger – but now he felt a cold shiver of dread run down his backbone. His hands closed into fists and he was ready to throw the dark stranger to the ground and make him reveal the source and purpose of his knowledge. Years of experience told him that he would be able to physically overpower the stranger, despite their difference in height. Seemingly oblivious to John’s threatening pose and heavy breathing, the stranger kept going: “It looks like you are not keeping contact with your relatives or your former fiancée, which is apparently due to a loss you experienced during the war. The person you felt closest to has died and you are avoiding Finland by choosing a life at sea. In your free time you study languages and keep diary. One might add that you do not seem to have fond memories of the first teacher you had as a child.” John stood still and breathed furiously through his nose. “How. Do. You. Know. All. This?” he asked through his gritted teeth. The two of them were standing so close to each other that their faces were almost touching.

“Obviously, everything I mentioned first is information that anybody with a certain amount of determination can get hold of,” the stranger stated casually, but then continued quickly, “Concerning the latter part, let us see. Your stopping in the sphere of the street light was very helpful: The depth of your suntan tells that you have not resided in Finland for any longer period during the past several years and have even tended to avoid the northern seas. When hearing me call your name your were surprised, but when hearing your given name you were shocked, like somebody who has not heard it for a long time. You do not wear an engagement ring, which might be very understandable on this particular street, but also you do not have an untanned band on your ring finger, which means you have not been wearing it for a while. However, you are wearing an expensive wristwatch, which you have not purchased yourself. Even though you are freshly shaven and combed, you are dressed in your work trousers and an old pullover, probably something from your time in the navy, which tells me that you do not spend money on clothes or accessories. You could have inherited the watch from your father, but it is a model only about ten years old, thus a young man’s watch, suggesting that it was left behind by the close person you lost.”

The stranger paused shortly to catch his breath and then carried on while John stood frozen in front of him: “Your proficiency in English is remarkable, although you have only learnt Swedish and German at school, typical to your Nordic origin. That means you have studied it on your own. Your palms are calloused from the physical work you do every day, but the middle finger of you right hand also has a small callus caused by the frequent handling of a pen. Like we can deduce from things mentioned earlier, you do not write home. Your work does not include writing tasks. The callus is caused by some other regular writing habit, which most probably means that you are keeping a diary. You are left-handed, but you use your right hand to write, having been forced to do so at school. This experience made your feelings towards your first teacher rather cool.” When John was only staring at him perplexed, the stranger added, now almost shy: “Did I get it right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sinking of the coastal defence ship Ilmarinen, like most general historical references in this fic, also happened in real life. It was the greatest single loss of Finnish navy to date: 132 men of the crew survived, 271 were lost, most of them trapped inside the hull. If you are interested, Wikipedia can tell you more: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnish_coastal_defence_ship_Ilmarinen


	3. I never saw your face

“That was… amazing,” John said. His fists opened and he let out a slow breath . “You have incredible skills of observation, whoever you are,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “Absolutely brilliant.” The shadow was too deep for him to tell for sure, but it looked like the tall stranger was smiling. And when he talked again, there was a new tone to his dark voice: “In addition to everything mentioned before, Johannes Valtonen is also the owner of a remarkable penis. I would say, approximately eight inches in length, the girth probably not much under six inches.” While talking, he moved his large, slender hand to John’s crotch and started to stroke his still half-hard cock through his trousers. John let out a groan, not caring to control himself. “Well, I must say eight inches was rather an underestimation,” the stranger said. He was still holding John’s hand with his right and caressing John’s cock and bollocks with his left hand in a way which in the shortest of time gave John an erection that was almost painful in its hardness.

John took hold of the stranger’s neck with his right hand, feeling the silky touch of the dark curls and the plush softness of his scarf. He pulled the curly head down towards his, until their noses were touching and their lips were only an inch apart. In the dim light coming from the street he could see the curls framing the stranger’s face and the sharp contour of his high cheekbones, but he could only barely make out his full lips with their perfect cupid’s bow. John inhaled sharply. The feeling of danger made his reflexes alert and his senses high-strung, which only added to the urgency aching in his groin. He felt the breath of the other man on his lips and spoke hoarsely into the hot dampness: “On your knees.”

The stranger in front of him obeyed readily. He sunk on his knees without loosing his grip neither from John’s hand nor from his groin. Suddenly John was again able to see the corner of the street, and almost simultaneously he heard shouted commands and running steps coming from there. After a couple of seconds he saw three policemen appearing at the street corner and storming into the alleyway. Two of them ran past him, towards the lavatory, but one stopped, glanced at John and the man kneeling in front of him and barked, “You. Come here.” Having said that, he moved his hand, apparently to pull out his truncheon or the handcuffs. John was stepping forward, showing his open palms, apparently following the order. But before the policeman could pull out whatever he was reaching for, John kicked his legs from under him and pressed his face to the ground. He pushed his knee between the policeman’s shoulder blades and forced his right arm behind his back in a way he knew would hurt. He had had the momentum of surprise working for him, but now the policeman under him was roaring in pain, which made his two colleagues turn and approach John. Behind them, John saw a dozen men running from the shadows of the alley. They had realised their chance of rescue arriving and successfully escaped to the bigger street.

The mass escape momentarily distracted the two policemen and gave John his cue. Without a hesitation he charged towards the two. He rammed into one of them, throwing him backwards on the ground. Spinning around, he placed a lucky bow on the other one’s jaw and kicked him in the back of his knees, making him collapse. He turned and was about to run, as fast and as far as possible, when he spotted the dark stranger still standing in the shadow, watching. “Run!” John shouted, but immediately realised that they were not going to make it. A fourth policeman had emerged from the street, gray-haired and older than the others. He was walking towards John unhurried, but looking gloomy. The policeman John had rammed had also gotten up. He wrapped his right arm around John’s throat from behind and grabbed John’s upper arm with his left, not very gently. John did not fight him. He stood silently, glaring at the older policeman from under his brows. The corner of his left eye had been chafed during the fight and a trickle of blood was running down towards his chin. For a moment he considered the possibility of throwing off the policeman holding him and making a desperate run past the older policeman. He deemed it not worth trying. The other two policemen were getting up. The one John had pressed to the ground was coughing and rubbing his shoulder, the one he had hit in the jaw merely looked angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual behaviour between men was illegal in the UK in the 1940s (like in most of Europe, except for Denmark, Sweden and Switzerland), and remained so until 1967. The police was enforcing this prohibition actively in the early 1950s, and in the mid-1950s there were more than a thousand men in prison in England & Wales for homosexual acts.


	4. With eager hands I grasped your hair

The older policeman was now standing directly in front of John. He looked at John frowning, his mouth pressed into a thin line. John knew what to expect. He would be arrested, accused of homosexual indecency and, very probably, imprisoned. And so would the dark stranger, whose pose in front of John had not left much room for interpretation. Why had the man not run when he had the chance? John turned his head slightly to look at his partner who was still standing in the deep shadow, now leisurely leaning his back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. And right as John was looking, he suddenly spoke in his low voice: “Inspector Lestrade, may I introduce to you captain lieutenant Valtonen from Finland. He is with me.”

His words clearly astonished the older policeman just as much as they astonished John. Also he turned now to look at the stranger, his mouth open and his brows drawn high. “Sherlock, what…?” he huffed. “On Mycroft’s request,” the stranger added, which seemed to shake the senior policeman into action. He turned back to John and gestured to the policeman strangling him to let go, albeit reluctantly. Released from the suffocating hold, John stood absolutely still, while a fury raged inside him. His hands again formed into fists as he stared at the stranger, ignoring the policemen. Inspector Lestrade for his part was staring at John, still looking doubtful. Just at that moment two men rushed past them from the shadows of the alley. They may have been down in the lavatory and missed the earlier outbreak, now choosing the slim possibility of escape over the certainty of getting caught. Lestrade gave John and the stranger one last baffled look and then cried out to his men: “Let’s get them!” All four took off and disappeared to the street, feet thumping on the plaster stones, following the two runners.

It took John two long strides to reach the stranger who was still leaning to the wall, apparently without a care in the world. He took hold of the red scarf, meaning to pull the man to the light of the street lamp, but before he could do that the stranger spoke again with his soft, intoxicating voice: “One more piece of information about captain lieutenant Valtonen. He seeks danger. When the situation is pressing enough, the psychosomatic limp in his right leg disappears.” John let his hand drop from the stranger’s throat and inhaled with a furious sniff. “Who are you?” he asked. Inquiring about names and identities was against the etiquette on these streets, but this specific rendezvous was not exactly following the etiquette anyhow. “The name is Sherlock Holmes,” the stranger said, adding, puzzlingly: “And the address is 221B Baker Street.” Saying this, he took John’s hand and pressed it to his own groin.

John sucked in a soft breath through his mouth. Under the exclusively thin material of the suit trousers, the other man’s cock was stone hard. It jolted under John’s touch. John grabbed the red scarf again and pulled the stranger’s face against his. He pressed his mouth to his lips with an almost violent force and forced them open. Tilting the other man’s head with both of his hands he kissed him with all of his restrained rage and lust, not caring about anything else anymore. Their lips rubbed and chafed as their mouths hungrily devoured each other. John bit on the blush, round lower lip of his partner in crime and felt a quick, dexterous tongue flicking on his own. He tasted the other man’s aroma in his mouth: strong tea, pipe tobacco, and something bitter that made him think of the endless morphine tablets in the military hospital. They breathed heavily. The taller man let his hands run down John’s back to his buttocks. John let go of his face and grabbed his arms. John pushed the stranger down on his knees. He felt the man bite lightly on his cock through the thick fabric of his trousers. It was once more almost completely hard.

“No teeth, or I will strangle you,” John warned. “Do not tempt me,” said the one, whose name was or was not Sherlock Holmes. Long, competent fingers opened John’s fly, and suddenly the head of his cock was already in the hot, sucking mouth. Wet, soft lips surrounded it and glided slowly down its length, making John groan quietly. His cock reached its full hardness in a couple of pulses. The other man gagged at its new dimensions briefly, but then gathered his bearings. John felt a probing tongue shortly intrude the slit at the tip of his cock, then swirling around it and licking the frenum. John sighed in surprise, as the man in front of him took the entire cock in his mouth and down his throat. He let it slide a couple of times in and out of the deepest part, giving it the most wonderful tight squeeze. John’s hands were among the curls of the man’s hair, grasping frantically, and he had to hold back his reflex to push with his hips. He felt his cock again emerge partially from the mouth of the man as he started to rhythmically suck it, popping his head slightly and cupping John’s balls with his left hand.

John panted, holding tightly to Sherlock’s curly head that was giving him this intense pleasure. Sherlock, if that really was his name, shifted on his knees and pushed his right hand in his trousers. He made a stifled whimper around John’s cock, apparently touching his own. The he returned to the sucking with even more dedication than before. “I am not going to last long,” John said, his voice hoarse, and lifted his left hand to his mouth. Again, he felt his whole cock being swallowed in the other man’s mouth and into the tightness of his throat. The sensation made him reach his climax in a rush. Out of old habit he bit into his palm and came silently. The man in front of him, a total stranger to him not more than fifteen minutes ago, took it all.

The kneeling man named Sherlock stiffed briefly, reaching his own release, and proceeded then to lick the last drops of John’s ejaculate. He then got up, right hand still inside his trousers, and said, his dark voice rather husky: “Wait here.” He went off in the direction of the lavatory and disappeared swiftly down the stairs. John buttoned up his fly and leaned with a shuddering breath against the wall. He only had time to rather dimly consider taking his exit, something he usually would have done, before the tall figure emerged again and came towards him in long strides. Reaching John, he took a perfectly ironed and folded handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to John, gesturing towards his chafed eyebrow. John wiped the blood off his face the best he could, pressed the source of it to make it clot and handed the soiled piece of cloth back to its owner. “Come with me,” Sherlock said.


	5. When we parted it was darker

The wind had died and now a thick fog hung over the city. Streetlights shone weakly trough the cold, white dampness. Sherlock dug his hands deep in his coat pockets and led the way. They rounded a couple of corners and came to a somewhat bigger street. Next to the pavement sat a lone black Austin. Sherlock opened the backdoors, gesturing John to get into the car, then following him. On driver’s seat a very young, very attractive woman was engrossed in a picture magazine. She did not take any notice of them getting in, but flipped a page instead and continued her reading. “Anthea, let’s roll,” Sherlock said. The woman let her magazine sink slowly, reading it till the very last moment. Letting it go, she started the car vigorously, without even glancing to the back seat, and drove off with a surprising speed. She negotiated nimbly the narrow alleys and then sped on, as they reached bigger streets, driving further away from the harbour.

John turned to look at Sherlock, who was gazing at the foggy darkness outside the window. Again, it was too shadowy to really see his face. It made John wonder, how far their acquaintance might proceed without him ever getting a proper look at the mystical creature beside him. He also started to latently worry about the purpose of their trip. Was he about to be arrested after all? Or maybe something even nastier? Before he could say anything, Sherlock let his right hand wander from his lap to the back seat and took John’s hand in his, continuing to stare out.

When Sherlock’s middle finger started to tap irregularly at his palm, John did not immediately figure out what was going on. Only when the tapping paused and then started again did he realise that he was receiving a Morse code. Sherlock repeated his earlier taps, and now John understood them: C – L – G. Calling! John glanced at Sherlock and tapped them with his finger C – F – M, Confirm. In the sparse light of a streetlight they were passing, John thought he saw the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirking into a quick smile. Then he felt the tapping continue. John did not have an idea why Sherlock could not simply talk to him, but he was too busy following the rapidly proceeding code, to dwell on that question.

The drove on for almost an hour. Through the fog John could see the outlines of city houses. Once he saw the ghost of a tower that might have been the Big Ben, but he was not sure. And all of the time, Sherlock was tapping his message onto John’s palm, once in a while stopping and asking him to confirm that he had understood. “In Bilbao, a man comes on board. His name is Josef Morche. He is a Nazi criminal, one of the worst. He has been hiding under a false identity somewhere on European continent for more than four years, but our secret service has now been able to track him down. He is trying to flee to Brazil. He has one or several contacts on Schwalbe, but we do not know whom. He is very dangerous, his contacts probably as well. Your task is to observe him and to find out who is helping him. Assuming you are interested?”

John tapped a curt “yes”, and Sherlock continued immediately: “Very good. Otherwise I would have had to give you over to Lestrade, until we catch Morche. And that could take decades, if we do not succeed now. It is of highest priority that you keep this information absolutely secret. You cannot trust anyone on board. Keep on observing until you hear from us. The password is Lavender Street.” John had been following the code in solemn concentration, but the last words made him give a short laugh.

“Welcome to the operation Botao com ancora,” Sherlock tapped after a while, “That is Portuguese for a button with an anchor. I did not choose the name.” John tapped an R for “roger”. They kept on driving in silence, now also a radio silence. Sherlock did not let go of John’s hand, and after a while John tapped on his palm a question: “Why me?” Sherlock started tapping the answer without a hesitation: “We cannot bring anybody new to the ship now or Morche and his contacts might get suspicious. If he backs off, we might lose track. Among the crew you are one of those we could exclude from the list of suspects with a relatively high probability. Furthermore, as an army officer you have experience in using a handgun, and according to our information you are a good shot.” After tapping this, Sherlock took with his free hand something from his coat pocket and slid it over the back seat to John without releasing his left hand. John took the cloth-wrapped package with his right, placed it on his lap and opened it gingerly in the near darkness of the car. It was a Colt M1911 with a smaller package containing cartridge and a tiny bottle of gun oil. John wrapped everything carefully in the cloth and shoved the entire package in his trousers, pulling the navy pullover over it. “But I’m also glad to see you,” he tapped and was again rewarded by a quirk of Sherlock’s mouth.

Anthea stopped the car on a small alley. John did not have a clue of their whereabouts, but Sherlock said, now aloud in his deep baritone: “Walk down this street, then turn right. Take the next turn left and continue straight. Go now. You do not want to miss your ship.” He let go of John’s hand, and soon John was standing on the deserted street, surrounded by the thickest fog he had ever seen in his life while Anthea made a break-neck U-turn and sped off. John moved the gun to the back of his trousers to make the bulge less obvious and started to follow the directions Sherlock had given him. After rounding the last corner he already saw the shapes of the cranes and ships looming in the otherworldly whiteness. Reaching the end of the street he could tell which one of the ships was Schwalbe, all lit up, loaded and ready to set off towards Spain.

When John came on board he checked in by the first mate, but went then directly to his cabin and latched the door. He took out the gun package and opened it on his bed. He ejected the magazine and controlled that the chamber was empty, then removed the pushing and the spring plug, the slide stop and the slide and took the barrel off the slide. He cleaned and greased the parts, some with the gun oil, some with Vaseline that he kept in a round tin box beside the washbasin. He then put the gun back together, loaded it and put the safety on. He pushed it under his pillow and hid the rest of the cartridge and the gun oil in his duffel bag. He took the English textbook from his pillow, stripped to his underwear, switched off the light, got into the bed and fell asleep instantly.


End file.
